


Comfort

by anamia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Sickfic, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm just... overwhelmed right now, that's all," Enjolras insisted, and Combeferre had to fight not to roll his eyes.</p><p>"I suppose that's one way to put it," he agreed. "A more accurate statement would be feverish and exhausted and possessing a chronic inability to delegate."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hamstr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamstr/gifts).



> This was written for Hammy, who flails really delightfully when you write things for her and is a joy to give things to.

Around five in the evening the door to Combeferre's rooms slammed closed. Combeferre, who was sitting at his desk and thus not the one who had just entered, paused in his reading and half turned in his chair. Before he could get any further a familiar voice called, "Combeferre? Are you home?"

"In the bedroom," Combeferre called back, and a moment later Enjolras stalked in and dropped his bag with a thump by the door and flung himself on Combeferre's bed. His face was flushed with emotion and his eyes shone too brightly for comfort. Combeferre frowned. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"What's wrong?" Enjolras repeated. " _Everything_ is wrong, that's what."

When it became clear that Enjolras was not going to continue of his own accord Combeferre prompted, "Would you care to give me some specific examples or shall I attempt to guess?"

Enjolras sighed. "My historical law professor is an idiot, the book they have assigned us in philosophy is the most blatantly vile piece of monarchist propaganda I have ever read, Courfeyrac nearly got arrested this afternoon for merely _talking_ to an acquaintance about the tyranny of the current system, a factory collapsed near the docks yesterday and killed twelve workers and not a thing has been done about it, my parents want me to come home for a visit, and it's freezing outside. Shall I continue?"

Combeferre rose and sat next to Enjolras on the bed, opening his arms to his friend. Enjolras wasted no time in taking Combeferre up on the silent offer and within moments he was clinging to the older student, head buried in Combeferre's shoulder. Because he knew Enjolras wouldn't be able to see it from his current position, Combeferre raised his eyebrows.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked mildly.

"Does it matter?" Enjolras snapped. "The problems of the world will not be solved by _sleeping_ , Combeferre."

Combeferre sighed. "Perhaps not," he agreed. "But they do have a habit of seeming more manageable when one is not exhausted."

Enjolras lifted his head and scowled, meeting Combeferre's eyes. "I haven't time," he said. "Courfeyrac will need to lay low for a time, which means that I have twice as much to do, and if I am to be required to leave town in a few weeks I have less time than ever to do everything, and..."

"And if you wear yourself down to the bone you will not be able to accomplish anything at all," Combeferre interrupted. He examined Enjolras' face carefully, noting that the flush in his cheeks was rather darker than one would expect from mere emotions and that his skin felt slightly clammy to the touch. He frowned. "Tell me, how long have you been pretending not to be sick?"

"I'm not," Enjolras said automatically, and Combeferre raised his eyebrows again.

"Kindly do not insult my intelligence and my education by lying," he said. "Or at least make up a lie that I might actually believe."

"I'm just... overwhelmed right now, that's all," Enjolras insisted, and Combeferre had to fight not to roll his eyes.

"I suppose that's one way to put it," he agreed. "A more accurate statement would be feverish and exhausted and possessing a chronic inability to delegate."

"I don't," Enjolras began, but Combeferre shook his head.

"You do," he said. "Or you would have realized that you needn't take on all Courfeyrac's tasks yourself. Bahorel is more than able to make contacts and between us Feuilly and I can write out and distribute his pamphlets, though I will concede that they may not be as amusing as his." He smiled down at Enjolras. "You, meanwhile, are going to get some sleep. As your doctor I insist."

Enjolras scowled, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the yawn he completely failed to swallow. He sighed, slumping back against Combeferre. "Why am I even friends with you?" he asked, voice muffled by Combeferre's shirt.

"Because without me you would have worked yourself to death years ago and we can hardly march forward to a glorious tomorrow without our equally glorious leader," Combeferre said, straight-faced. "Things will be less overwhelming tomorrow, I promise. And I will go south with you if you like."

"You needn't take time away from your studies," Enjolras said. "I know you're busy."

"I can afford a break," Combeferre assured him. "And your parents are an education in and of themselves, as I recall." He stroked the back of Enjolras' head, strands of hair sliding across his fingers. "But we'll discuss it in the morning."

Enjolras didn't answer, and for a time Combeferre thought he'd finally fallen asleep. Just as he was about to carefully pry himself away from his friend's embrace Enjolras spoke, voice quiet and fuzzy. "Combeferre?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Combeferre smiled. "You're welcome," he said quietly. "Now sleep."

Enjolras' eyes drifted closed again and his grip on Combeferre loosened slightly as he finally slipped into slumber. Combeferre disentangled himself and pulled a blanket over Enjolras, then went to fetch his book. He settled back onto the bed next to his sleeping friend, leaning against the headboard and going back to his reading, one hand entangled with Enjolras'.

**Author's Note:**

> Enjolras is deliberately written as less mature than usual here, both because he's younger (probably seventeen or so) and because he's feeling generally terrible about everything and can let it out around Combeferre. It's a different take on the character than I usually write, but hopefully it doesn't feel egregiously out of character to anyone.


End file.
